


Captive

by hithelleth



Series: In Enemy's Hands [3]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Future Fic, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 11:51:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hithelleth/pseuds/hithelleth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charlie is stuck with Monroe and has a lot of issues to think through. There’s also sassiness and angst. And smut, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Captive

Charlie wakes in an empty bed in the morning. Judging by the light, she guesses it is still early. When she begins to stretch, something rustles beneath her fingers. It’s a short note:

_“Miles went on an errand for me. Make yourself at home.”_

No signature, but there’s no need for it. An errand? She remembers the conversation at night, something about rebels and power.

She sighs, too tired to speculate. But how considerate to leave her a note, a part of her mind remarks, only half-mockingly. Actually, she is sort of grateful.

The uncomfortable pressure in her bladder reminds her why she woke up. She scoots off the bed. Her limbs are heavy and she feels sore, but it isn't as bad as her imagination painted it years before, when she overheard women talking about it.

Remembering the events of the night on the way to the bathroom, she knows it would be natural to panic, but she feels strangely calm. It would also be sensible to try to escape now that she’s apparently alone. She discards the thought. The door to the suite is certainly locked and there’s militia all around. Besides, she reminds herself, feeling a pang of guilt that it’s the last thing that has come to her mind, Danny will be here soon and he’s the reason she’s here in the first place.

As far as other things go, though… Charlie has to be honest with herself. Had someone described her such a course of events in the past, she would have never thought to be so…  _fine_  with it. But she is. She is aware of how twisted it all is. She’s been aware of it all the way from Chicago, having that kind of feelings for Miles… yet she can’t regret it. Not when the sole memory of last night makes her body tingle with delight. Even with Monroe… She stops her train of thought abruptly. What on earth is she supposed to think or feel about  _Monroe_ , the man whose name has been to her a synonym for evil… and now she’s been dumped here, obviously at his mercy. She sprouts a bit of resentment towards Miles for that, although what she really feels is mostly uncertainty and fear.

It annoys her, being scared, but then it comes to her mind what Maggie taught her and Danny: fear is best conquered when one is properly dressed and fed.

She can at least see about the first, so she goes about finding something to wear. Their backpacks, which they left in the lounge, close by the door, are no longer there. It raises her suspicions. As she hesitates on the doorstep, deciding what to do, a smell hits her nostrils, making her mouth water.

There’s breakfast set on the table: juice, jam and bread, even bacon and eggs, and coffee. Obviously, being the General has its perks. Her stomach growls and she realises she is starving. But she has learned her lesson never to let her guard down. So she decides a more proper outfit comes first.

She heads back to the bedroom, hoping to find at least her yesterday’s clothes. She didn't pay much attention to the room last night, but now, in the bright light of the morning, she looks around properly.

The furniture is made of solid dark wood, old- and fancy-looking, but what does she know. There’s the bed with the night-stands, a large wardrobe, a small table with a few chairs, and a low drawer. On it, to her relief, she notices her backpack.

She finds its contents intact, not really surprisingly, since everything that could be used as a weapon was taken from them upon their arrival. She dresses, and then stops defying the temptation of the food in the lounge.

After the first bite, huger takes over. She launches herself at the food and all but clears the table. With her stomach full, the fatigue and sleepiness return. She stalks back to the bedroom.

Lying down on top of the covers, she closes her eyes for a minute. When she opens them again, the light in the room is different. Having nothing else to do, she decides to look around. However, in the lounge she discovers lunch waiting for her on the table. She decides she might just as well take the opportunity while it’s there and sits down to eat.

Just as she finishes the meal and begins to wonder what to do now, she hears footsteps outside, door unlocking. She tenses. She gets up and backs towards the window. A second later a woman and a man enter, both wearing the militia uniform.

“Miss Matheson, the General wants to see you,” the man announces while the woman gathers the plates on a tray and takes it away. Charlie complies follows the guard, not really having any choice in the matter and. He locks the door behind them and leads her downstairs, not touching her, but sticking close to her side.

He doesn't seem to lead her the way they came yesterday evening as far as she can tell. She is just about to ask him about it when Monroe shows up from around the corner; his face unreadable and voice cold as he dismisses her guide.

“There’s someone you’d probably like to see,” he says to her, motioning for her to follow. Her heart skips a beat because she immediately thinks of Danny. But Danny is not here yet, she reminds herself.

Monroe knocks on the door at the end of the corridor, opening it without waiting for a reply.

“Bass. To what do I owe the pleasure today?” she hears a soft, tired female voice ask from inside the room.

“Rachel. There’s someone you’d probably like to see.” He repeats the words he has just spoken to Charlie.

She takes in the luxury of the room, the blond woman who stands from behind the desk she has been sitting at, her face somehow familiar. Then it hits her. She knows this face.  _Rachel_.

“Mum?” the word comes broken from her mouth.

“Charlie.” Rachel’s eyes widen with disbelief. She steps around the desk.

“I’ll leave you to catch up.” Charlie only half registers Monroe’s expressionless face as he exits.

The door behind him clicks shot. Rachel comes towards her, arms spread. Charlie is frozen in place.

Then Rachel pulls her into her arms, strokes her hair.

“Oh, Charlie. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Reluctantly, Charlie hugs back. Tears blur her vision.

Rachel holds her at an arm’s length.

“Look at you, all grown up,” she whispers, brushing the tears away from Charlie’s cheeks. She lets go of her only to wipe her own eyes with the back of her hand.

“Mum….um…how,” Charlie struggles with words. “I…I thought you were dead.”

“No,” Rachel shakes her head. “Just a prisoner.”

“For how long?”

“The entire time.”

“But…”

“Never mind that, right now, Charlie,” Rachel hurries as she shows her to sit down. She sits next to her, taking her hands in her.

“I was told about your dad. I'm so sorry, Charlie.”

Seconds tick by in silence.

“Do you know the Militia took Danny? They are bringing him here.”

“Yes,” Rachel admits, “Bass…Monroe told me that, too.”

Charlie raises an eyebrow at hearing her utter the name in such a familiar form for the second time, but doesn't pursue it since Rachel continues: “And you’re here, too. I knew nothing about that. How did that happen?”

“Um, Miles and I, we went after Danny, and uh, couldn’t get to him, so we decided to surrender.”

Something hushes across Rachel’s face at the mention of Miles, but she doesn't say anything.

“Are you okay, Charlie? Did they treat you badly? Did they hurt you?” she asks instead, her eyes carefully assessing her.

“No, I'm fine.” Charlie pauses. “They…We were treated…um…well, I mean, politely and all…” It’s the truth, though Charlie can’t help moments of last night spring to life inside her, but she can’t – doesn't want to tell about it to her mother.

“Right.”

There is that expression again, momentarily.

“Well, I'm glad, honey.”

Rachel strokes her hair. Charlie flinches back ever so slightly. She can see Rachel quickly hiding a hurt look. She folds her hands in her lap.

“Come on,” she smiles then, “tell me about you, all these years…”

So Charlie does. Rachel asks her about where they lived, about dad and Danny, about school and landscape. And Charlie talks. She has just enough sense not to mention Maggie, but she tells her about their travels, about settling down at Sylvania Estates, planting and hunting. She describes the village, the woods and the meadows, and things she learned about in village school. She talks about how she played with Danny, how she kept her promise, always taking care of him, except that one time when she was so stupid.

The door abruptly opens. In strides Monroe.

“ I'm sorry to cut this reunion short. I need to speak with Rachel.” He gestures towards Charlie: “You can leave.”

Startled, Charlie forgets she’s supposed to move right away.

“Out.” He doesn't raise the voice, but the tone sends Charlie on her feet and on her way. She glances back at Rachel, who smiles in return. She smiles to her, too, before leaving the room. A pain tugs at her heart. Will she ever see her mother again? She can hear her voice from inside, and Monroe’s, but can’t distinguish the words.

The same militia guy as before takes her back and locks the door behind. Charlie slumps against the wall.

***

Eventually, she scrambles on her feet. She goes about finding something to drink. Water, though she considers something stronger.

Later she wanders around, although there is not much to see. There’s another large bedroom at the other end of the hallway, white sheets draped over the furniture. A second bathroom is next to it, and, facing it, another room behind locked doors.

She soon ends up back in the lounge. There’s a bookshelf behind the sofa alongside the far wall. She hasn't paid much attention to it before, but now she starts looking at the printing on the book spines. She has never seen that many books in one place. Actually, she hasn't seen that many books, period. She recognises some names: Shakespeare, Tolstoy, Hemingway. She remembers Maggie reciting them, her outlandish accent filled with reverence.

She remembers the stories her dad used to tell her. She used to dream she was in one of those stories, having adventures, fighting villains – or the Militia – saving the world. Well, she’s got her adventure, and she’s been fighting the villains, she thinks sarcastically, but as far as saving the world goes, she just wants to save Danny.

A title catches her attention. Aaron mentioned it, speaking of the ocean and boats which could sail through wide seas, driven by wind in sails and many strong hands rowing. Homer’s  _Odyssey_. Her fingers pry the book from the shelf of their own accord.

She settles on the sofa and opens the book. The elaborate, old-fashioned style and difficult words intimidate her already at the beginning. Yet, she stubbornly persists, trying to shut down the thousand and one questions on her mind. Soon, ignoring the obscure parts, she gets immersed in the story so much so she pretty much forgets everything else.

The sound of door unlocking and several peoples’ steps brings her back to the present. Two women dressed as militia come in with trays, set the table for two, and leave.

Presently, Monroe appears in the doorway. “Come,” he orders without delay, “let’s have a civilised dinner.”

She puts the book away. The table looks very classy, and makes her feel uncomfortable, all the more so when Monroe even holds a chair for her.

“I hope you find the food to your liking,” he says after he takes his seat.

“Yes, thank you,” she replies, her politeness automatic, but genuine.

“Good.”

There’s steak, potato and salad, a glass of water and wine with a bottle on the side. The food is delicious, but she remembers her manners and doesn't hurry, trying to act like a lady, as it is supposed to be a ‘civilised’ dinner.

“If you have any questions, feel free to ask.” Monroe offers after she has a few mouthfuls. She swallows before speaking.

“Not really.”

It’s a lie, of course, and she knows Monroe sees through it. But she is not brave enough today. Even if it didn’t make him angry, she probably wouldn't like the answers. Besides, what would she ask?  _Where did Miles go? Why do you hold my mother prisoner? What did you have to talk with her about? What will you do with me?_  No, she prefers not to ask those just yet.

The atmosphere gets increasingly awkward as they go on with their meal in silence. Charlie hardly touches the wine, and Monroe only empties one glass. He keeps shooting glances at her, and she tries not to look at him too often. He seems composed and calm, but she’s distrustful of the appearance, not sure when he might burst out.

Charlie is relieved when they are finished and Monroe declares that “this has been a pleasant meal” and excuses himself.

She resumes her reading. She starts feeling tired and sleepy fairly soon. She deliberates. Where is she supposed to sleep? W _ith Monroe?_  Her cheeks grow warm, the double meaning not lost on her. She postpones the issue by heading to the bathroom. A few new surprises await her there, but not unpleasant. There are fresh towels on the shelf, and on a stool a bundle of clothes. When she unfolds them, she discovers a pyjama her size, the material soft and warm and, she knows, expensive.

The warm water that comes running from the tap is a temptation too much. She hesitates only a little before she starts filling the bath. If she’s going to get yelled at for it, let it be. She’s been used to it lately.

She loses a sense of time a little, so she can’t say how long she’s been in the bath. When the water gets too cool she dries off and dresses.

She steps in the hallway, wavering.

“Hey. Come here.”

The door to the master bedroom is open wide, enabling Monroe propped against the headboard a good view on the hallway. He’s been obviously waiting and watching what she’s going to do.

“Close the door.”

She does as she is told. Monroe taps the place beside him, the meaning universal. She notices the sheets have been changed. Monroe has changed, too. He probably used the other bathroom, because his hair is damp. He’s wearing a t-shirt, the cover pulled up to his waist.

She climbs into the bed, nervous, feeling his eyes on her. As a cat watching its prey. But he doesn't make the slightest move. She lies down, trying to keep a decent space between them, but not too much – you don’t want to offend him, she gives herself a mental warning.

Monroe puts out the lantern. She can feel him slide down on the pillows, but refuses to look at him.

“Have you slept with my mother?”  _Shit. Of all the questions…Has she just said this out loud?_  She braces herself for the wrath to follow. It doesn't.

After a pause, Monroe chuckles.

“What? Jealous already?” he smirks.

He reaches over and she tenses. But he only pulls the covers up over both of them.

“And, no, I haven’t.” he says matter-of-factly, pulling her close, so her back touches his chest. The oddly comforting position doesn't calm her at all. The words that follow even less: “Now, you don’t want to provoke me today, do you? I gather a repetition of certain activities might be a little unpleasant, considering.” It’s partly a threat and partly a tease. Her cheeks flush at the implication. She’s thankful Monroe can’t see that.

He puts an arm around her waist after a while.

“Relax,” he says quietly, “go to sleep.” His tone is almost soothing. And she tries to listen to him. She breathes deeply, focusing on – well, on  _not_ focusing, on trying not to think. Gradually, the sound of even breathing and the clean smell of sheets and, yes, she can’t help but notice, Monroe, calms her down and she falls asleep.

***

The next day Charlie gets up early enough to see the militia woman number one, as she calls her in her head, the one she saw the day before after lunch, bring up breakfast. When she comes to clear the table later, she carries something that turns out to be Charlie’s mysteriously missing clothes from the day she arrived, now washed. She lets Charlie know she can leave anything she would like to have washed in the bathroom in the evening.

Charlie thanks her.

After that, the day is pretty much uneventful. Charlie reads. Walks around. Exercises on the floor in the middle of the lounge. Eats the lunch they bring her.

As the day passes, she gets more and more bored and irritated. The emotions built up inside her, developing into anger by dinner time.

This time the militia woman number two, the grumpy one, as Charlie nicknames her, sets the table only for one. A bit of disappointment she feels at that only adds to her annoyance.

After she eats and the grumpy woman comes to take away the plates, she lingers in the lounge, not knowing what to do. She’s too restless to read and all the questions she’s been repressing for the last two days come up, right on the tip of her tongue.

She’s tapping her fingers on the windowsill, looking out without really seeing anything. She’s worried about the future and she hates being left alone like something you can put in a corner when you don’t need it without so much as a word. She’s not used to just keep quiet and wait in one place with nothing to do. A piece of her mind that is smart and rational says she’s being childish. She should be thankful she’s not rotting in a jail cell or worse.

All the conflicted notions mixed up, she feels like exploding by the time Monroe strides in.

“Good evening, Charlie. How was your day?”

The pleasantry catches her by surprise. “Fine,” she mutters.

“My apologies for leaving you alone at dinner, I dined with my officers.”

 _Surely plotting world domination_ , she thinks.

She watches him from aside as he pours himself a drink.

“Is there something wrong?” he turns to her.

“No,” she denies reflexively, hating that it comes out rather pouty.

“Now, I don’t think that’s true,” Monroe saunters closer, so she retreats to sit the sofa.

She shrugs. “Why do you care?”  _Shit._ She scolds herself for not thinking before speaking.

Monroe leans against the windowsill where she used to stand just a few monuments ago, so she has to look at him over her shoulder. “ I'm curious. So?”

Charlie keeps quiet, looking at her hands folded in her lap.

She flinches when Monroe leans over the sofa, speaking almost into her ear, his voice as collected as ever.

“The Mathesons haven’t struck me as if they lacked the courage to speak their minds so far. You’re not the first, Charlotte Matheson, are you?”

Her face flames.  _Has he just called her a coward?_

“What do you want?” she spits.

“Honesty.” He straightens, but looks pointedly down at her.

“Why do you keep my mother prisoner?”  _Great opening._   _Think before you speak, Charlie,_  she reminds herself.

“Ah, that.” Monroe doesn't seem upset. “Why didn't you ask her? I'm sure her version differs from mine.”

She doesn't know what to say to that. He moves over to the bar, setting down the empty glass.

She gathers up the courage to ask: “What is your version?”

“Oh, it might have to do something with her being an engineering genius who knows how to turn the power back on.”

“What?”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about you parents. For example, they were one of the masterminds who knew all about the blackout before it happened. In fact, I'm sure they had a lot to do with it happening. Your father was one of the mathematical brains behind it, too.”

“That’s a lie!”

“Sorry, no.” Monroe stalks closer, his demeanour still perfectly calm.

“Why did you kill him?!”

“I didn't.”

“Your men did! Same thing.” She stands up, balling her hands into fists, trying to hide she’s shaking with a mix of anger, sadness and anxiety.

“They wouldn't if your stupid brother didn't meddle in what was none of his business.”

Charlie feels tears well up in her eyes as she remembers that day. She wills them away. She won’t give Monroe the satisfaction to see her cry.

“Danny’s not stupid!” she yells back, instead.  _Yes, he is, stupid, stupid little brother,_  her brain counters. “I wasn't there!”

“And that’s the real problem, isn't it?” Monroe is now standing before her. “It wouldn't change anything, if that’s of any consolation.”

“Consolation?” She frowns. “How do you know it wouldn't?”  _How does he know what she thinks?_

“I don’t. I assume.”

“It doesn't matter to you anyway.”

“Actually, it does.”

“Yeah, right.” She lets out a bitter laugh, shaking her head.

“Charlie, look at me,” he tilts her chin up, so she has to meet his eyes which are just inches away. “Your father’s death was never my intention, as I've already told Miles.”

“Well, you haven’t told  _me_.”

“ I'm telling you now.”

They stare each other down. She hates to acknowledge she actually believes Monroe is sincere.

She steps away, and this time Monroe lets her. She crosses the room to the window before turning back to him.

“Why do you think it wouldn't change anything? If I was there,” she clarifies.

“Because you’d probably do the same stupid thing as your brother and your father would still be dead.”

“At least I’d keep Danny safe as I was supposed to.”

“Probably. But then you’d be captured instead and still end up here just as you are now. Although,” he adds, “most likely in a much less pleasant way.”

“Uh.” She puffs at the word pleasant. She knows he’s right, though. If she got captured, Danny would be safe. But what would have happened with her on the way?

Monroe comes to stand next to her.

“I’d prefer if your father just came here with my men and give me what I need.”

“The power, of course.” She doesn't look at him.

“Yes.”

Another pause follows. It’s Charlie who breaks it. “Where did you send Miles?”

“To retrieve a device your father gave to one of your friends. Apparently, it can –“

“Let me guess, turn the power on, so you can kill more people?” she cuts him short, putting together the bits and pieces, glaring at him.

“Quite the opposite, actually,” Monroe keeps looking at her even when shifts back a bit, “to prevent the republic getting invaded and devastated from two sides at once. That would be extremely unpleasant for everyone, I assure you.”

There it is again, a reminder of how it could be worse. A part of her wants to ignore it, stick with the simple black and white picture. But she’s seen things since she left her home. If she shuts up the stubborn child in her, she has to acknowledge Monroe might have a point, although she doesn't like it.

She chooses to change the topic. “What’s gonna happen to me?”

It sounds whiny, completely different than she aimed to. “I mean, what am I supposed to do now?” she corrects herself, but she still doesn’t sound too confident.

“I thought you were here because of Danny?”

“I am.” She manoeuvres towards the middle of the room, hesitating.

Monroe follows her, slowly. “So, what’s the problem?” His look changes ever so slightly.

It unnerves her enough to just blurt out: “Maybe being imprisoned with nothing to do but wait.”

She tries to evade Monroe again, but he catches her wrist.

“Are you saying you’re bored, Charlie?”

“No.”  _Can she sound even less convincing?_

She tries to snatch away her arm, but he tightens his grip, pulls her closer. She recognises this look already, knows what it means.

“I don’t even know what the next day will bring.” There goes her big mouth again before she can stop herself, her biggest fear out on the open. Her eyes tear up again, but not from Monroe’s grip.

“That’s nothing to worry about.” Monroe says softly, “and I can certainly think of a few ways to keep you occupied.” The last part is charged with a seductive note.

He grins. She guesses his intention a minute before his lips descend upon hers. She tries to tear away, but he takes hold of her face with both hands, firmly but gently, and it’s all too much. The tears that have been gathering for a while spill silently down her cheeks. To her utter surprise, she can feel Monroe brushing them away with his thumbs.

She pushes at his chest, accomplishing nothing. He’s unmovable, his lips still on hers, persistent, teasing. It doesn't take long before she gasps, involuntarily. And then his tongue invades her mouth meeting hers, scarping, licking, tasting. She gives in, meeting him halfway. Instead of pushing him away, she now clasps the lapels of his uniform jacket, pulling him to her. He moves his hands, one to support her neck, the other around her back, clutching her close.

Somehow he backs her against the wall by the door, never letting go, crushing his body against hers and it feels so good, so warm. She flings her arms around his neck, casting away the last bit of resistance she has had in her.

They are both out of breath, when they break apart.

“Bed.” Monroe grates, and she doesn't think twice, hell, she doesn't think once, because she wants it, she wants him, so she matches his long strides eagerly as he tugs her to the bedroom.

He nudges the door shut with his foot, while spinning her around, the situation so similar to the last time, and yet so different. He takes a long moment to look at her, searching her face for –something. It’s enough for her to decide and close the distance between their lips. It’s her now who explores his mouth, cautiously in the beginning, but as she realises he is letting her take charge she becomes more daring. She’s still angry, but her body demands something else, and she lets the anger feed her want.

The pretence of control is intoxicating and she revels in it. When they come for air again, Monroe takes his jacket off without saying a word, all practised, deliberate motions, her eyes on her. There’s something dark and dangerous in them, but it doesn't frightened her, not now when it makes the muscles in her belly clench in anticipation.

He takes off her jacket next, and then kisses her again. It is less hurried, but filling them both with desire still more. They move towards the bed while kissing, until her legs hit its edge.

Monroe pulls her shirt overhead, his eyes scorching her skin as they travel across it.

“I could use some help with these buttons,” he prompts. He doesn't, but she obliges him willingly anyway, though her fingers tremble in the beginning. She starts at his neck, going down, while he runs his fingers through her hair and along her spine, drawing circles on her shoulders, distracting her, so it takes her to do the task longer than it would otherwise.

She tugs his shirt free from his pants, undoing the last few buttons, before looking up. He licks his upper lip, dropping his arms aside, and gives her a small nod, so she pushes the shirt off, his skin burning under her hands. He makes a satisfied grunt, seeing her reaction as his shirt falls on the floor.

“Sit,” he tells her quietly. As she does, he removes her boots and socks, then his own, sitting next to her.

They move up on the bed, and he smiles wickedly before undoing her pants. He hooks his fingers behind the hem, tugging them down. Then his lips are on her, placing soft kisses on her belly. His tongue licks a circle around her navel before going further down. She grasps handfuls of sheets with her hands, more feeling than seeing him smiling against her skin. She lifts her hips so he can peel off her pants, kissing along her hipbone, the inside of her thigh, her knee, her calf, the jutting bone on her ankle.

He gets rid of the rest of his clothes before making his way back up on the other side of her body. He leaves her panties in place, kissing across her ribs, teasing her nipples through the fabric, nibbling at her collar bone, making her pant. She can feel him grind against her hard, as he sucks a mark on her shoulder.

She starts moaning quietly, as he returns his attention to her breasts. Soon, he frees them, discarding her bra. Then his hands are on her bare skin, followed by his mouth, and her moans get louder as he takes first one nipple in, sucking, and just barely scraping it with his teeth, then the other.

Heat unfurls in her core and she has to rock her hips against him. He growls and lets go of her breasts. Her panties are gone in the matter of seconds. She opens her legs, so he can settle between them. He reaches between her thighs, and his touch sends a jolt all over her body. She inhales sharply. His lips find hers again and he ravishes her mouth while his fingers play with her.

“I like that you’re so ready for me,” he whispers in her ear, his voice coarse, sending another shock of pleasure through her limbs.

She has to hold on to something more solid as he withdraws his fingers and she can feel his shaft brushing against her, so she grips his shoulders. It’s easier this time, there’s still a bit of discomfort when he fills her, but then all she can feel is a satisfying fullness. He starts moving and she follows instinctively, soon matching his rhythm, meeting him each time. Her heart is racing, all her thought focused only on the warmth spreading over her body. When his hand reaches between them, it only takes a few flicks of his thumb over her bundle of nerves and she shatters around him.

The waves of pleasure coursing through her make her forget everything else. Only a corner of her mind registers him pulling out and crashing beside her as he comes against her hip, his face buried in her shoulder.

They stay still like that for a few minutes. Afterwards, he moves only enough to pull the covers over them, tucking her against his side. She doesn't object, because her limbs appear to have melted and she feels too damn good and tired and sleepy.

***

In the morning, Monroe is gone again. However, the militia woman, the kind one, who brings her breakfast, informs her that the General requests to see her after she’s eaten.

_Great, what now?_

After she finishes her breakfast, a man whom she recognises as the guard from the night she arrived comes with the woman to escort her to Monroe’s office.

Monroe is in his chair as they arrive, looking all presidential, but he stands up and comes sit on the edge of the desk, a folder in his hand. He dismisses the guard.

The room itself unsettles her enough, but there’s something in his demeanour today that does so even more.

“So, Charlie, it has come to my mind that you might want something to occupy yourself with during the day,” he starts, a detectable smugness in his voice.

She would gladly strangle him right then when he puts it like that.

She doesn't reply, so he continues: “You seem quite – fit. I mean, making all the way from Chicago,” he adds, probably seeing her grimace as well as her hot cheeks “and a skilled hunter. The best in your village, I've heard.”

 _How the hell does he know that? Oh, right, the all mighty general._  She waits to see what else there is to come.

“I thought it would be best for you to join training with the recruits.”

“What?!”

“You don’t like the idea?”

She thinks about how to put it the way she wouldn't insult him and ruin his apparent good mood. “I wasn't planning on joining the Militia.”

“I'm talking about training, not joining the militia. It would be such a shame to waste your great shape by inactivity.” Monroe is obviously enjoying himself. “Besides, it might come in handy if you want to run away. Or kill me.”

“Why would you want to help me with that?”

“Maybe I like a good challenge.”

She doesn't respond, and she can see the moment his playful mood vanishes.

“It’s either that or I throw you into the dungeons. You pick.”

Her blood turns as icy as his tone.

She grits her teeth: “Fine, I’ll train.”

“Excellent.”

He goes to stand behind the table. “You can start right away.”

Then he calls in the guard and starts issuing orders. Before long, she is on the way to the training grounds.

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta-ed. All mistakes are mine. Feedback is always welcome.


End file.
